Ink slowly pooled onto the paper in front of him. If he looked closely enough, he could see how the papers’ fibres pulled at the ink and left the circle’s edge rough. He really should move the pen away, ink isn’t exactly easy to come by in a prison camp, and he really really should have been using a pencil to write his letter in the first place but the pen had been the first writing implement he could find. While he was well aware of the fact that he should move he just couldn’t muster enough will do to so - instead staring at the pooling blob of ink as if it were the most fascinating thing to have happened in the history of ever.
The barracks was nearly silent, all inhabitants save the three of them having left to roam the compound between storms. From one of the bunks behind him came the periodic rustle of a page being turned. From the other end of the table came the soft whoosh of card-stock rubbing together as it’s half-heartedly shuffled. Both sounds were quite quiet and not in the least bit distracting. So why could he not focus himself enough to even write one lousy word? If he could just get started he was sure the rest would pour out of him; but ennui weighed deeply and the longer he waited the harder it felt to get started.
“Pierre?” a voice queried. He blinked owlishly in surprise when he realized it was his own voice. From where he had found the will or desire to speak he knew not. A grunt and the skittering sound of several cards missing their mark and spilling about the table answered him. “I’m bored,” he stated. Any hint of a whine was clearly the imagination of the listener. He received no verbal answer and though he didn’t look he could clearly visualize the Brits annoyed eye-roll. The shuffling resumed. He listened as two passes sounded out then made a casual demand, “Carry me around the compound.” He was rewarded with a much louder skitter as nearly the entire deck of cards missed their mark and went scattering about both the table and floor.
“Wha’? Why? ‘Ave you gone bloody crackers?” Was the spluttered reply to which he returned, “I’m bored. And it would be très amusant.” Innocent brown eyes met incredulous green. “Really,” the Brit drawled, drawing out the word into multiple syllables. “You expect me to wander about camp with you in me arms?”
“Non,” brown eyes sparkled, lips twitching up at the corners, “that would be silly. I want to be carried on your back. Just once around the Stalag. Act like nothing is out of the ordinary. See what happens.” Green eyes narrowed in serious consideration. The silence dragging on long enough for him to believe he would be denied. He drew breath to retract his request when, to his delighted surprise, the green eyes softened and glittered as his friend sniffed and conceded, “Yeah, all right.”
“Just give us ha’f a tick,” the Brit muttered more to himself then his excited French counterpart. He stooped over to gather up the spilled cards from the floor and dumped them on the table. Too distracted by the sight of the petite French Corporal almost literally bouncing around the barracks, collecting his scarf and beret, to give more than half his mind to what he was doing. Absent-mindedly he shrugged on his own jacket and moved to stand beside the table just in time for the aforementioned Frenchman to march up on the nearest bench and leap upon his back.
The two very nearly went down. Yes, the taller man had been expecting it but the force still came close to knocking him over. Some wiggling, a bit of shuffling, and a few more small adjustments had the smaller Corporal slipping down so that his knees gripped his taller companion between his natural waistline and hips. The new position allowed him to support some of his own weight without compromising the Brits ability to move normally. Surprisingly strong hands took hold of his thighs, lifting slightly and giving him the confidence to relax his choke-hold. Finally he relaxed his torso forward, allowing his chest to rest flush against the others back to give him complete control over their balance. All in all it took the pair only a handful of seconds to complete the bizarre little dance, which had been plenty of time for the third member of the trope to get in position.
The American had nearly torn the page he’d been in the middle of turning when the Frenchman had made his requested demand of the Brit. Sure, eavesdropping is wrong but when you live in a match box with little by way of regular entertainment you don’t exactly make any attempt to reign in your natural curiosity. He was sprawled, boneless, across his bunk with his back propped against one of the posts. He watched the pair's antics bemusedly, not really believing they were going to go through with it. So sure that either or both of them were just putting the other on and the whole thing would be called off at the last second. It wasn’t, they were actually going to do this - he wasn’t going to miss it.
In a sudden burst of energy he tossed his book down and leapt from the bunk. He nearly tripped over himself in his enthusiasm to stuff his feet into his boots. He wasn’t even sure he’d placed the right boot on the right foot but he wasn’t going to take the time to double check. He didn’t even tie his shoes, resigning himself to stuffing the laces down inside so as to save time. His jacket was only half on by the time he opened the barracks door. He nodded to the pair as they passed and finished dressing, smoothing down the front of his uniform as much as could be done so that he appeared presentable - normal.